


A Holiday Letter

by klmeri



Series: Holiday [2]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Community: jim_and_bones, Humor, M/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-09 23:03:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1151851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klmeri/pseuds/klmeri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel of sorts to The Holiday Waywards. Pike is at his wit's end in regards to his son, Jim, and when he intervenes - in a unique and desperate fashion as only a parent of Kirk can -  to set things right, his plan has an unexpected impact in his own personal life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Holiday Letter

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the jim_and_bones comm flash fic Valentine's Day challenge centered around _love letters_. The muse saw this and wanted to play. I was powerless to stop it!

_Dear Jim,_

_How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..._

 

Christopher Pike grimaces and backspaces over those words with haste. Sighing, he props his elbows on the edge of his desk and scrubs his hands over the morning stubble on his face.

This task is more difficult than he anticipated, and at the rate he's going (which is slower than a snail can crawl), he is never going to have the letter done before the 14th. Why is his son's love life such a mess that Pike has to resort to this kind of underhanded tactic?

Some parenting books would accuse him of crossing a line, of meddling where he shouldn't. Chris long since gave up relying on those kinds of books because what do those authors know about raising a James Tiberius Kirk? Jim isn't a run-of-the-mill kid. Jim isn't a run-of-the-mill anything, in Pike's opinion.

He sits up with a grim determination and goes back to the letter.

_Dear Jim,_

_Where do I start? This isn't the simplest of letters for many reasons, but there are things I need you to know._

_Jim, I_

With a loud _ping_ , a new window suddenly appears at the corner of Pike's computer screen, distracting him from full immersion into the character of one love-lorn best friend. He gives a huff of amusement as he reads the notice **bada$$withabadge wants to talk. Accept?** Unable to stop a grin from stretching across his face, Chris clicks on the Yes button.

 **bada$$withabadge** : how the fuck does this thing work

Chuckling, Chris quickly types out a reply.

 **Jimiamyourfather** : I think you're using it correctly, Jon.

 **bada$$withabadge** : wasnt before  
 **bada$$withabadge** : started chatting up wrong dude  
 **bada$$withabadge** : ended badly

 **Jimiamyourfather** : I can imagine.

 **bada$$withabadge** : up yours

 **Jimiamyourfather** : Idiot.

 **bada$$withabadge** : closet nerd  
 **bada$$withabadge** : only thing to be said to man in his 40s w/ alias like that

 **Jimiamyourfather** : I'm impressed you can spell alias.

 **bada$$withabadge** : spell check did it for me  
 **bada$$withabadge** : also spelled clauset  
 **bada$$withabadge** : closet

 **Jimiamyourfather** : LOL

 **bada$$withabadge** : what is that

 **Jimiamyourfather** : Means Laughing Out Loud.

 **bada$$withabadge** : lol

Chris resists the urge to use a dopey emoticon. Instead, he tries for stern.

 **Jimiamyourfather** : Why aren't you working?

 **bada$$withabadge** : bored

 **Jimiamyourfather** : Then go terrorize your deputies. That always makes you less bored.

 **bada$$withabadge** : johnson cried  
 **bada$$withabadge** : i had to apologize  
 **bada$$withabadge** : OMGWTFBBQ  
 **bada$$withabadge** : 2BZ4UQT

 **Jimiamyourfather** : I'm afraid to even ask.

 **bada$$withabadge** : internet slang  
 **bada$$withabadge** : improving my learning curve daily

 **Jimiamyourfather** : Please don't substitute numbers for prepositions. 

**bada$$withabadge** : your son does it

 **Jimiamyourfather** : And I regularly lecture my son about his lack of command of the English language. Texting is the bane of all parents who have become beggared by their children's college education.

 **bada$$withabadge** has left the room

Chris lifts an eyebrow at this, wondering if he offended Archer enough to make him drop out of cyberspace. Reluctantly, he turns his attention back to his draft and a barely begun confession. He is struggling with a way to say _you complete me_ that doesn't make him regret his existence in this world when the chat room dings again.

 **bada$$withabadge** has entered the room

 **bada$$withabadge** : FUCK  
 **bada$$withabadge** : NOT MY FAULT

 **Jimiamyourfather** : Your capslock is on.

 **bada$$withabadge** : PIECE OF SHIT  
 **bada$$withabadge** : OOPS SOrry not you  
 **bada$$withabadge** : technology sux

 **Jimiamyourfather** : Good to know. So chat booted you?

 **bada$$withabadge** : i think the boot was steel toed  
 **bada$$withabadge** : but lucky for me my ass is as hard as a rock

He bursts out laughing.

 **Jimiamyourfather** : It's your head that's hard, Jon.

 **bada$$withabadge** : that too  
 **bada$$withabadge** : n my abs  
 **bada$$withabadge** : did i mention my abs

 **Jimiamyourfather** : I think I know why the other chat ended badly.

 **bada$$withabadge** : prick

Chris's attempt to type _dumbass_ is interrupted by the vibration of his cell phone announcing an incoming call. It's a number he recognizes well so he foregoes name-calling in lieu of typing quickly:

 **Jimiamyourfather** : BRB

He adds while balancing the phone between shoulder and ear and saying, "Pike here":

 **Jimiamyourfather** : Means Be Right Back.  
 **Jimiamyourfather** : Station calling.

Partly distracted by the lack of Archer's reply, Chris listens to the Chief of Police's secretary's question about missing HR forms. "I sent those in a week ago, Doreen. Hold on a sec..." He minimizes the chat screen so he can see his email inbox and searches through his Sent folder. "Found it. Want me to resend it? Yeah, okay. No, no, things are fine. I'll be back in on Monday. Ha, he wishes! Okay. Mmhm. Okay. If anybody needs me... Yeah, I know. Bye."

He forwards the attachments to HR again, CCing Doreen. Why is it HR always seems to lose his paperwork?

He calls up the chat room, decides since Jon's waiting the man can hang on a moment longer and goes back the open message containing the love letter. Maybe he should say...

_Jim, you mean more to me than words can express. I never expected to love you the way that I do, but I can say I don't regret my feelings._

The insistent pinging of the chat room barely registers as Chris becomes engrossed in the letter. Eventually his gaze flickers to the other window and sees that **bada$$withabadge** has left and re-entered the room three times in succession. He clicks on the text box at the bottom to ask Jon if he is ready to murder his computer yet (Pike really thinks the bad connection is due to Jon being ten years behind the times with his dial-up connection) when Archer disappears again.

What to say next? Pike ignores the now-familiar ping, since it only means Jon is back once again, and looks down at his keyboard, hurriedly putting his next thought down. _You mean everything to me, but how do I know you feel the same?_ He hits Enter to start the next paragraph, pausing to glance up and review that latest sentence.

The words aren't there.

The cursor inside the message draft blinks innocuously at him—and Pike feels the blood drain out of his head as he realizes what that means.

On the small chat screen, **Jimiamyourfather** just confessed his secret love to **bada$$withabadge**.

His fingers are flying across the keyboard to correct the mistake, to tell Jon that what he wrote was an accident, was not intended for him. Even as Pike frantically writes an apology, heart in his throat, he hears how pathetic it sounds. That damnable ping happens at the same time he jabs the Enter button on his keyboard, praying instantaneous reply is fast enough to make up for his mistake. 

But the chat room is not his friend, he learns. In rapid succession, the two messages appear:

 **bada$$withabadge** has left the room

 **Jimiamyourfather** : Sorry, Jon, I typed on the wrong screen. 

Pike sits back in his chair, slightly stunned. As one minute turns into five and five into ten, Chris tries to pretend he isn't the littlest bit panicked when Jon doesn't return to the chat room.

~~~

As the hour approaches lunchtime, Chris pads barefoot into his kitchen to inspect the contents of his refrigerator. There isn't much to be seen: three bottles of water, a package of bologna with one slice left in it, mustard, a wilted cabbage leaf, a weeping tomato and, oddly, one pack of spearmint gum.

Chris is a poor grocery-shopper; he's always known it. He raised Jim on Chinese takeout after he realized the teenager had no intention of eating healthy and how hypocritical he looked eating the way he did while he tried to feed Jim carrots and broccoli. They came to a compromise on Chinese food because it had vegetables in it. Chris still tried to fight the war on sweets (since he has never had much of a sweet tooth himself) but Jim ultimately won, if the evidence of candy bar wrappers, ho-hos, and twinkies hidden under the boy's mattress was any indication of what his son liked to eat while Pike slept the sleep of the oblivious.

Those were never dull days, living with Jim, Chris thinks with a touch of fondness as he retrieves a bottle of water and closes the refrigerator door.

The pantry fares no better than the sad state of his refrigerator. Most of the canned food has met its expiration date by two years. Sighing, Chris begins to rifle through the well-worn menus of local restaurants. Maybe he could order pasta. Pasta is hardy enough to get him through the painful task of finishing that love letter. Decided, he reaches for his phone with a menu in hand, when his door bell rings. Chris puts the thought of food aside and leaves the kitchen.

On his one day off, someone has to bother him. Of course. When is it ever any different? Sometimes Chris is of the opinion life wants him to stay high-strung.

The person on the other side of his front door is not a UPS man or a neighbor. It's Jonathan.

It's a Jon who is shoving a brightly colored bouquet into Chris's personal space. Face full of flowers, he accidentally inhales too much pollen at one time and sneezes. For a quick second, he wonders if this is his crazy friend's version of a sneak attack. 

But Jon doesn't look like he's about to beat Pike senseless with pretty plants. He looks...

Words fail Chris at the look on Archer's face.

"Gerber daisy," Jon says, pushing the flowers farther up Pike's nose.

Wordlessly, Chris pries the flowers from his friend's tightly fisted hand and cradles them, not knowing what to do or say. Given Archer's change in expression, Jon doesn't know what to say either.

Chris tries an awkward "Thanks?"

Jon's gaze drops to the bouquet. "They didn't have roses."

"I don't need roses." Realizing how that might sound, Chris corrects quickly, "I mean, roses are—are for women?"

A wry smile touches the corners of Archer's mouth. "And daisies are for men?"

Chris has a sudden image of Archer skipping through a field with a daisy chain around his head. His eyes water with the effort not to laugh. "N-Never mind." After clearing his throat, he adds with sincerity, "Thank you, Jon. I'll... put them in some water."

Wait, does he even own a flower vase?

It occurs to Chris then he cannot leave Jon standing on the stoop. He silently invites the man inside his home with a jerk of his head. While holding the door open to allow Archer entrance, Chris's trained eye takes in the details initially he had been too startled to notice: a Sheriff's jacket, slightly rumpled; grim lines about the eyes; the faint smell of a strong liquor. And Jon's hands (the ones that aren't holding the bouquet of flowers anymore) twitch as if the man is nervous.

If Jon's nervous, that makes Chris nervous too—which he doesn't want to be. "Have you eaten? I was about to order lunch." The casual tone is easy to call up, like a game. Pike is a trained detective and interrogator after all.

So is Jonathan. The man's hands grow still. "Sure." He looks Chris straight in the eyes. "What were you thinking of ordering?"

"Italian."

"I'd never pass up free Italian."

Chris almost snorts. "Who says I'm buying your lunch, Archer?"

The man lifts his hands with an innocent expression. "Hey, I'm the guest here. It's kinda understood that the host treats the guest."

It would be rude to sling the daisies at Jon's head, wouldn't it? Damn.

Annoyed yet less tense than he was moments ago, Chris goes into the kitchen and opens the first cabinet he comes to. No vase. With a muttered curse, he methodically checks the rest of the kitchen cabinets, vaguely hoping a flower vase might appear. Daisies hanging limply from one hand, he slams the last door closed and runs the fingers of his free hand through his hair.

"Here," Jon says by his ear.

Chris looks at the proffered object. "That's a coffee pot."

"It'll work."

He faces Archer. "Jon, it's for _coffee_."

Jon shakes the pot. There is a distinct absence of sloshing noises.

Disbelieving, Pike grabs the pot and peers into it. "Son of a _bitch!_ You threw out my coffee!"

"I know, I know. How are you supposed to live? Jesus, your blood's not made of caffeine, Christopher." Chris's friend sighs dramatically. "Sometimes I think you have an addiction."

"Pot, meet kettle," snaps Chris, jamming the flower stalks into the pot and going to the sink to fill it with water.

"Whoa, let's not get testy with a sheriff, Princess."

"No new nicknames unless I can call you asshat."

"Don't you anyway?"

Chris is going to punch Jonathan. He really, really is. "If you know what's good for you, Archer, you will go over to that phone on the wall and call Carrabba's. Then you will order me the Orecchiette."

"Okay, but I'm warning you I can't spell that word, let alone pronounce it."

Chris puts the new flower vase/coffee pot on the kitchen window sill and turns to watch Jonathan pick up the menu that had been discarded on the counter. Jon frowns at it and flips the paper front to back, then scratches his head.

Something strange, an emotion maybe, lodges in Chris's throat.

"They have steak, right?" the bemused-looking man calls over his shoulder to Pike as he retrieves the phone receiver.

Chris swallows and coughs a little so he can talk. "Just double the order. You'll like the dish, I promise."

"Last time I sang Old McDonald Had a Farm, a chicken didn't moo."

"Jon," Chris says, exasperated, "stop arguing and trust me for once, would you?"

Archer's shoulder lifts in that half-shrug Chris remembers so well, but the man says, "You know I trust you" and orders two of the Orecchiette.

Chris's heart warms.

Then Jon also orders five different appetizers and three orders of garlic bread and tells the Carrabba's employee who answered the phone, "Oh and this meal is on my friend. Of course he is. He's standing next to me. Sure. I can give you the number right now. You got a pen?" He recites Pike's credit card number and expiration date from memory like a professional crook.

Archer hangs up and beams at Chris. "Bless you, Mr. Pike! I was hungry!"

Christopher retaliates with his middle finger and leaves the kitchen before he can give in to the urge to commit murder with any of the handy weapons within reach. "There's something I need to show you," he tells the house guest following at his heels. 

Fetching an extra chair, Chris takes it to the room he uses as his office. He realizes belatedly that Archer has not obediently followed him all the way through the house. After a quick visual sweep of the hallway, he notices the door to Jim's bedroom standing slightly ajar.

"Well, make yourself at home," Chris comments dryly, leaning just inside the doorway.

Jonathan is standing in front of Jim's bookshelf. He looks Pike's way and waves an action figure in the air. "This is a classic. Your kid's got good taste. Did you buy this for him?"

"No," he answers, moving farther into the room. "Jim had that when he came to me." 

The only thing a young Jimmy had said when Chris asked about it (since Jim had brought no other toys in the one backpack of clothes provided by the boys' home) was "I think it's my dad's." The boy kept it close to him for months, in his pocket during the day or under his pillow at night. Chris's heart had ached in an inexplicable way whenever he saw Jim's expression when the child looked at it.

Then Jim was to leave for college, and Pike remembered tucking the G.I. Joe into a box of books, thinking his boy would want to take with him that one connection to his past which meant so much to him. After Jim's first weekend home (to do laundry of all things, like Pike's washer and dryer were the only ones that existed in a hundred mile radius), Chris had gone into his son's room just to feel the ghost of Jim's presence because it had been more difficult than he anticipated to see Jim so sparingly. The old action figure had been returned on the shelf, positioned like it was in charge of overseeing Jim's domain in his absence.

"I would put it back just the way you found it," Chris warns Archer. "Jim has a keen eye for noticing anything amiss in his room no matter how long he's been gone."

"Such a party pooper," grumbles the other man but he places the action figure back on the shelf.

Chris pretends not to notice that on Jon's feet-dragging way out of the room, Jon nudges books or papers or pencils so that their normal positions are just marginally off-kilter. The subtle differences will drive Jim crazy the next time he comes home. Chris intends to give up Jonathan as the perpetrator without a qualm.

That makes him wonder how his son would react to the knowledge that Archer has been in their house. Hopefully that doesn't end in another trip to jail.

Once they are in his office, Chris points to his computer screen. "Read that," he orders.

"You're demanding today, Princess," quips Jon. "Not that I mind." He waggles his eyebrows then sits in the chair Chris had provided for him and squints at the tiny lines of the letter. Seconds later, Archer stiffens and turns to look at Chris; his expression would be considered comical if his face wasn't so pale. The man's mouth opens but nothing comes out of it.

It dawns on Chris, who had been slightly jumpy about this misunderstanding between them but determined to address it at the same time, what his friend must be thinking.

"Good god, no!" he explains with haste, face flushing. "The letter isn't to Jim _from_ me. That's—that would be—" Chris figures the look of horror on his face mirrors Jon's. He sits down. "It's from Leonard, or is supposed to be."

Archer's face slowly clears, though his voice has an unusual quality to it. "Thank god. Really, Pike. Thank every holy deity that was ever worshipped on this earth. I am not equipped to handle incest." Then Jon goes back at the letter, blinks and seems to return to himself. 

Chris can't describe how relieved he is. He rubs at one of his temples.

Next to him, Jon frowns. "Wait, so you're forging a love letter to your son?"

"I couldn't think of anything else to do," Chris confesses. "I tried talking to Jim but his promises to confront Leonard seem a little feeble nowadays. So I tried going directly to McCoy but I can't come close to the kid. If he catches sight of me, he looks like he's going to puke and takes off running in the opposite direction."

"Well that's not good," Jon murmurs sympathetically.

"Tell me about it," Chris says, unhappiness bubbling to the forefront of his thoughts. "I thought McCoy and I had an understanding about the Christmas Eve incident... but in the last few weeks, we seem to be on a back-slide to distrust."

"I doubt he distrusts you, Chris. I had the impression he admires you, or at least what you've done for Kirk."

"Then why has that changed?"

But Jon doesn't have that answer. Only Leonard does.

Chris pushes his computer mouse to-and-fro across its pad. He senses Jon's eyes on him without having to look up. "Turns out I'm terrible at love letters. As you can see, I've been working on it all morning and there is a single paragraph. A _bad_ paragraph."

Jon sighs through his nose. "So what do you want me to do? Hold your hand? You're not a romance novelist, Chris, you're a detective—and a damned fine one. And when police paperwork starts requiring poetry, I'll eat my hat."

Chris chuckles. "I'd pay to see that."

"Fuck you. I am not a billy goat."

"You've got the personality of one."

Jon looks indignant. "You're making it hard for me to remember why I drove eighty miles to see you."

Suddenly afraid of what else Jon might say—or reveal—Chris stands. "I need to pick up the takeout."

Jon isn't listening. He is staring intently at Pike's failed attempt to impersonate an in-love McCoy. Chris sighs through his nose as Jon did moments ago and heads to the door to go find car keys, shoes, and a jacket. Mid-February is still winter and the last snowfall in late January has yet to completely disappear.

"All right!" Jon announces without warning, startling Chris before he manages to step foot into the hallway. "I can do this!"

Jon pep-talking himself into an idea is never a good sign. Never. "What can you do?" inquires Chris cautiously.

Jonathan turns his head to give Pike a sidelong glance. "I can write the love letter, old son."

Chris just blinks at him.

"What?" the man counters, eyebrows raised. "Do you doubt my abilities at romance?"

"Given your taste in daisies? Clearly not," Chris responds without thinking.

They stare at each other for a short moment before bursting into laughter.

"Okay," Chris tells him once he has his amusement under control. "You can't possibly be worse at it than I am. Entertain yourself. I'll be back in a half-hour."

"Mmhm," Archer replies absently, already dragging the keyboard towards him. "Food is good. Go get my food."

"Jackass," Chris says with fondness, and leaves.

~~~

The parking lot is full and Chris has to fight his way into Carrabba's. Then he waits in line with the other individuals ordering or picking up takeout. A waitress recognizes him (he does love his Italian food) and says when she has a free second, she will peek into the restaurant kitchen to see if she can find his order.

In the interim, Pike's cell phone rings. "Jim," he says, not bothering to answer with the usual hello, "is this a call from jail?"

"Why is that always the first thing you ask me when I call, Dad?"

"Did I imagine Christmas?"

"Yeah, I mean, _no_. Jesus. That was forever ago. Have a little faith in me, will ya?"

Two months is not forever. It is a frighteningly short period of time. But jail has not and probably never will disturb Jim Kirk.

"I apologize. What's up, son?"

Jim's voice sounds far away for a few seconds as he talks. Then the call becomes clear again. "Sorry, I'm out shopping and, man, is it crazy-busy! And there's all these hearts and teddy bears and shit."

"You shop?"

"Haha, Dad."

"And might I add, with what money?"

Jim's laughter is loud and genuine, almost bright if laughter had a color. Chris is glad to hear him sound so happy. 

Then he realizes the boy didn't answer his question. But before he can actually dig for more information, Jim says, "I'm calling about your sheriff buddy." There is a pause. "How cuckoo is cuckoo for him?"

That's a difficult question to answer. "Why are you asking?"

"I was in this store, you know where they sell little trinkets, birthday cards and flowers. It's Ms. Genie's store. She likes me. Did I tell you about her?"

"No, and I think I could live without those details."

"It was like late at night and I was—well, I was kinda drunk—"

" _Jim_ ," Chris pleads, hoping his son will realize these 'adventures of Jim Kirk' never ease a father's worries.

Jim rarely listens. "I can totally tell you this story, Dad, trust me. It's not like the time Bones and I got so shit-faced we woke up on the top... never mind."

The friendly waitress has come back with the bags of food. Chris shoots her an apologetic look and pantomimes that he will need a minute or so to finish his call.

In the meantime, Jim has continued what he considers a riveting story. "So I was kinda drunk but not TOO drunk, and Ms. Genie—didn't know her name then—was closing up her shop. She gave me this look like I was a vagabond or something, and so I staggered on by 'cause I think I was trying to find a cab that could get me back to the dorms, when this asshole comes out of nowhere and steals her purse! I mean, just rips it right off her shoulder!"

Chris closes his eyes. "You went after him."

"I had to!" his son agrees cheerfully. "Suffice to say, I caught up to the guy, we had a scuffle, and I got the purse back. Voila! Now I'm Ms. Genie's hero."

There are so many details missing in that story, so many and yet Chris is afraid to ask.

"Okay, Jim, you retrieved a lady's purse and you didn't die because of it. I'm so proud of you, son. Can we return to the part about Archer?"

"My ego is not fully gratified."

"Sorry, that's the best I can do without lecturing you on the dangers of going after criminals while intoxicated."

"Uh, point taken." Jim coughs into the phone. "Ms. Genie is sweet but she likes to gossip."

"You like to hear gossip so that partnership must work out well for you both," Chris says dryly.

"She _said_ the Sheriff had swung into her store looking like a crazed man. He demanded roses. She sold him Gerbera daisies."

Thank god Jim cannot see him. Chris would not know how to explain the rising color in his face.

"That's... interesting, Jim. Any reason why I need to know this?"

Now Jim sounds uncertain. "I thought it might matter? I don't know. Like maybe you want me to find out if he's, um, seeing anyone? I mean, _Archer bought flowers_ , Dad. I don't think he feeds them to his dog." Jim pauses. "I hope he doesn't."

"Jim, I don't want you to do anything."

Predictably, Jim protests being told not to do something. "But, Dad..."

"I mean it. The man deserves his privacy."

"Since when has he ever respected my privacy? Hey, hold on a sec. Got a text."

When Pike glances at the waitress, she has forgotten about him and is assisting other customers.

Jim's voice comes back, triumphant. "Sulu says Archer's truck isn't at the station, and he also says that Pavel says the truck isn't at the guy's condo either."

Good Lord, his son has a spy network! 

Without thinking, Chris pinches the bridge of his nose. This means it's only a matter of time before Jim finds out what he is so eager to know. 

His loud, somewhat resigned sigh causes Jim to say in a concerned tone, "Dad?"

"Jon's at the house."

The other end of the line falls into a disturbing silence. 

"Jim?"

When Jim speaks again, he sounds strange, a little breathy, maybe a little panicked. "...the house? But..."

"Everything's fine, Jim," his father assures him in a soothing tone.

"Fine? Then if he's not there to... wait, he brought _you_ the flowers?"

"Is that hard to believe?"

But Jim isn't paying attention, so caught up in a burgeoning thought process that hadn't occurred to him before, despite his conversation with his father some months ago. "Oh shit. _What is going on over there?_ Wait, don't tell me in exact detail!"

Now who wants to live in blissful ignorance? Chris thinks, amused. "You're overreacting."

"It is not an overreaction when your father is hooking up with the town sheriff. Or has already hooked up with... oh _god_ , I feel nauseous."

Chris rolls his eyes. "I'm hanging up now, Jim."

"You can't! This is a bombshell of epic proportions! We need to talk about this!"

"We really don't."

"NO! Put him on the phone! Archer, I know you're there! I can hear you breathing! If you lay your filthy hands on my dad—!"

Jim is loud enough to be heard by the crowd around the counter. The guy, the heavy breather, next to Chris is startled enough to hold his breath. Chris thinks he is going to bust a gut trying to contain his laughter. He places the cell phone on the counter next to his bags of food and opens his wallet to show the waitress his driver's license and the credit card Jon had blithely told the restaurant about.

Jim's voice fills the space between him and the woman checking his card number. Mostly the shouting consists of violent and physically impossible threats against Jon's person. Chris tucks his credit card and driver's license back into his wallet when they are handed back to him then calls down to the cell phone merrily, "Talk to you later, son!"

A near-shriek rattles the phone speaker. " _Don't let him woo you!_ "

Chris hangs up. The waitress looks at Pike knowingly. "Valentine's Day troubles, huh?"

"You have no idea," he replies with a smile.

~~~

Surprisingly, Jonathan doesn't seem smug when Chris returns with their food. He looks wrung-out.

"Did you break into my liquor cabinet?"

"No," Jon replies, a dismal stare fixed on the computer screen. Ice cubes in the glass in his hand clink together.

"Do I even want to know what else you've poked your nose into?"

"I think you have a family of mice in your attic. There were droppings."

Chris stares at the back of Jonathan's head. The man's hair is unkempt as if he'd repeatedly run his fingers through it. "Why were you in my attic?"

Jon taps the space bar on the keyboard once, twice. "Writer's block."

Chris doesn't know if he should be pissed or grateful Jon had confined his prying to places inside the house. ...He had stayed in the house, hadn't he? 

"Did the attic unblock you?"

Jon lifts his nearly empty glass. "The scotch did."

"Wonderful," Pike mutters. "Your food is in the kitchen."

Without a word, Archer rises from his chair, still clutching his drink like he thinks it might wander off otherwise, and walks out of the office. Pike intends to follow him until the moment he glances at the screen of his computer. There is a message there, longer than the one Pike had managed, and that draws his attention and his curiosity. He finds himself settling into Archer's abandoned chair and maximizing the message window so he can read it without scrolling down.

_Dear Jim,_

_I love you._

_I can't say it any other way because I don't know how. If I did know, I wouldn't because I don't want to cover the words up or chance changing their meaning. And I don't, no matter how much you wish I would, want to say them in a way that makes you feel safer. Love isn't safe. It never has been for a man like me. Because of that, I want you to share in my trepidation and my fear. I want you to understand that confessing how I feel about you is the hardest thing I've ever done._

_I love you._

_It is what it is._

_I could tell you a lot of other things besides, like how after you left to go your way and me mine that I didn't speak for a whole day. I couldn't because every time I opened my mouth I asked somebody something foolish like "What if I never see him again?" Maybe back then, when we were together, I didn't recognize just how much you'd crawled under my skin, but I knew it soon enough once you were gone. So I did a lot of things I'm not proud of to make missing you hurt less, and I tried hard to keep a single-minded focus on my career. In the end, though, I don't think any of that worked because the day I saw you again, looking older, more tired but_ just like you _, it was like seeing the sun come out after a long rain._

_This isn't about second chances because we never had our first. I am saying I want more than anything to have that first chance with you. I don't want to go to my grave knowing I let you walk away again without trying to hold onto you, especially when it's obvious we're meant to be a part of each other's lives. Why else would we be this close together, right here, right now?_

_I think you know I'm no coward about the hard facts. If you don't, or can't, love me back, I won't dog you about it. Hell, you could even tell me to never darken your doorstep again and I would probably obey. It would kill the only decent part of me I got left to do so but if that's what you need from me... you should know by now I can deny you nothing._

_It ought to be shaming to be this far gone over another person. I don't care. I only know I've been in love with you for too long and I doubt that's going to change anytime soon. If it's true there's someone out there who is the other half to a man's soul, and believe me I'm the most skeptical of skeptics and the last guy to take to romantic notions without feeling strange about it, for me you're that person. Maybe I'm not the half a soul you need, but I know you can only ever be the one that completes me._

_So, end of story. If you've gotten this far, I will be amazed. And if you decide to reply, as I hope you will, I will be grateful for just that much._

_Your friend,  
the man who can't tie his own shoes but can love you forever,_

 

A blinking cursor rests on the last line in place of a name. Chris wipes at his eyes and, fingers trembling, completes the letter.

_Your friend,  
the man who can't tie his own shoes but can love you forever,_

_Leonard_

He turns off the computer monitor so he doesn't have to see the most devastating confession he has ever read and goes to the kitchen to eat his lunch.

~~~

Jon devours his meal with an intensity that tells Pike the man doesn't want to spend their lunchtime talking. So Chris heats his pasta in the microwave to a temperature of his liking and gives a single-minded concentration to eating as well.

The hour following that silence finds them retired to Pike's office again and staring at the blank monitor screen. Archer reaches out with careful fingers and switches the monitor on. "So what did you think?" he asks Pike softly.

Chris looks away. "I'm not certain that's how Leonard feels."

Abruptly, the set of Jon's jaw is belligerent. "Oh, I'm sure it's how he feels all right. How could he make up heartfelt shit like that?"

"Jon," Chris warns the man sharply.

Jonathan turns his head to look at Pike. "You tell me, Christopher... Did any of that seem fake to you?"

"No, I didn't say that."

"Then what's wrong with it?"

Frustration leaks into Chris's voice. "I didn't say there was something wrong with it! I said it doesn't seem to _suit_ a young man like Leonard."

"Who cares about McCoy!" snaps Jon, shoving away from the desk.

Chris has a moment of indecision before trailing after Archer into the living room. He watches the agitated man start to pace then stop abruptly and seem lost to find a direction he likes in the unfamiliar surroundings. 

Chris lifts his hands in a placating gesture. "Jonathan, I think you need to calm down."

Jon jerks around to level a glare at him. "What I need is a big-ass glass of whiskey."

"No."

"You're not my mother, Pike! If I want it, I can have it!"

"But can you stop once you've got it? That's what I'm more concerned about."

The subtle accusation brings Archer stalking towards him. He looks like a bull waiting to spy a red flag. "Since when do you care about my problems?"

"Jon, I've always cared."

The man snorts derisively. "Don't think I'm stupid, Chris. You can't hold a real conversation with me for more than a few minutes at a time. Hell, you can barely look me in the eyes some days! Do you think that makes me feel like you _care_?"

"I—" Chris could curse. Instead, out of habit, he retreats into silence.

"See! Right there, that's you doing what you do best—shutting me out. Why," Archer asks, and his tone changes, turns close to pleading, "do you have to shut me out?"

"It's—it's not..."

"Sweet Jesus," Jon says with finality, closing his eyes for a brief second, "this is the 'it's not you, it's me' speech. Can we just skip it?" The man seems to deflate all at once. "Can you spare me that humiliation?"

But Chris can't stop because there are words forthcoming he feels he has no control over. And that loss of control terrifies him. "Jon... Jon, I can't say anything because... you think I'm braver than you but that's a lie. I have no courage for this." He lifts a hand, palm up, between them before dropping that hand weakly back to his side. "Why do you think I'm a man in his forties without a wife and kids, or a partner? In those years we were at the Academy, why did I never go on a date? Maybe it seemed to you I didn't want anything serious, but that's not true. I'm just... not good with people in an intimate kind of way."

"That's not true," Jon argues quietly. "You look at what you have with Jim. That's a relationship a lot of people would envy."

"Jim was young and in desperate need of affection. I used that to my advantage."

"Yet the kid is still stuck to you like glue. Christopher, you're really confusing me here. Do you want me or not?"

The answer lodges in his throat; he forces out what he can. "I'm afraid of what I want."

Archer looks at him for a long minute before saying slowly, "Okay—okay, I can work with that."

But Chris shakes his head and reminds himself fiercely not to take a step back when Jon moves toward him.

"You gonna let me touch you?" his friend asks in a low voice, letting one of his hands hover near Pike's arm.

 _If all else fails, bluff your way through._ An instructor had said that once at the Academy. Chris took it to heart then and does so now. He lifts a hand and, staring at a long seam in Archer's jacket for a few seconds, delivers a solid punch to the man's shoulder.

After releasing a breath he didn't realize he had been holding, some of the tension leaves Chris. He punches Jon's shoulder again in the same spot. The result is an instantaneous kind of relief.

"I'm not sure what sort of therapy this is," Jon says, putting a hand to his abused shoulder, "but I hope it's making you feel better. 'Cause me? Not so much."

"Shut up." Chris mimes slugging Jon again.

Jonathan cracks a smile. Christopher does too.

"Are we done fighting?" his friend wants to know.

"Have we resolved anything?"

"Not really."

"I'm okay with that," Chris says with a slight shrug.

Jonathan claps a hand to his shoulder. "Surprisingly so am I. For now." Then he retracts his grip on Pike's person and rubs his hands together. "So, what's your son's email address?"

"Why?"

"For the love letter, you dope! All young admirers profess their undying love through the Internet. I had considered posting it to a MySpace page..."

"Jon," Chris interjects, alarmed, "we are not publicizing my son's love life."

"...or on one of those social network accounts, Twit, Tweeter, something or other. Or the Facebook. Yes, the Facebook! Did I tell you I have one of those now? I friend all the women with big boobs." Jon leads the way back to the computer as he chatters. 

"There are times when I really want to shove a sock into your mouth."

"Kinky. Hey, when are we going to have that conversation? I'll need to know what you're in to."

Christopher is too horrified to answer. 

When Jon tries to take a seat at the desk, Chris immediately stops him. 

"I said no. I changed my mind about the letter. We're not sending it." Given the older man's incredulous expression, Chris might as well have said sheriffs weren't allowed to wear cool hats anymore. No matter. "I've made up my mind," he repeats firmly. "This was a bad idea to begin with. I'll delete the message."

"Absolutely not!" comes the growl. 

Archer really can't be so stupid as to fight him on this, can he? "I'm not sending that letter to my son!"

"Tough shit. It's my blood, sweat, and tears! My vote counts more!"

Pike and Archer's eyes meet in that instant, and they're wrestling for the computer mouse in the next. The cursor flies across the screen without direction.

"Let go!"

" _You_ let go!"

"It's my computer!"

"When I move in, it'll be mine too!"

Windows pop back and forth; things on the screen are flash-mob highlighted—and suddenly the love letter disappears. Chris can only watch in horror as his inbox icon does a familiar little jig, followed by an equally cheerful notification _Your mail has been sent!_

"Er..." Jonathan winces. "To: fields populate themselves?"

Which means Jon had known Kirk's email all along and had kindly filled in some blanks for Pike where he shouldn't have.

"Get it back!" Pike's vocal cords produce a note they haven't made since he went through puberty. "Fuck, Jon, how do we get it back!"

"We can't?"

Sure enough, the Undo button in no way corresponds to the un-sending of emails. Pike lets go of the mouse and grabs at his hair with a sound of despair.

"Hey, it's okay," his friend soothes while patting his back.

"It went out under my name," Pike croaks, unable to take his eyes off of the traitorous application on his desktop.

"Chris," Jon murmurs in a tone he no doubt reserves for mentally unhinged lunatics with bombs strapped to their chests and possible suicides, "buddy, it's gonna be all right. No, no, none of that now. The keyboard doesn't deserve that kind of treatment."

Pike allows Jonathan to take away the abused keyboard when his sudden burst of energy is spent. Then he proceeds to slump in a chair and moan. "I'm never going to be able to look my son in the eyes again."

"Is this the kind of situation where hugs help?"

"Where's my gun?"

"Okay, gotcha. No hugs."

They sit in silence for several agonizing minutes until Jonathan stirs from his chair and asks, "Can I have that drink now?"

Pike gestures weakly at his liquor cabinet along the far wall. It's not like Archer hasn't already picked its lock and rummaged through the cases. As he listens to Jon move around the room, Pike hooks a foot under the rung of his chair and covers his eyes with one hand. It's his own fault he feels the onset of a migraine. What the hell had he been thinking, wanting to write that love letter in the first place?

Jon has been talking over Pike's silence. "...The boy knows I'm here, right?"

How does Jon know that?

"So I'll just tell him I sent it as a prank," Archer offers, clinking glass against glass as he pours a drink. "He'd believe that, especially of me."

"Jon..." Pike begins, only to swallow his surprise. "Thanks but no. I'd rather tell him the truth."

"So you want to tell him I wrote that letter to you?"

It would be better—easier—to leave his hand where it is, covering his eyes, but Chris knows deep down he can't keep himself in the dark any longer. He shouldn't hide from Jonathan, and if he tried... Jon's a determined man when he wants to be.

"Chris?"

"Just thinking. About Jim, leave him to me. The more we can minimize your part, the better. He's not overly thrilled you and I are involved anyway."

A warm hand settles on the back of Pike's neck. Chris accepts the glass being offered to him and sips at the brandy. It's from one of the older bottles he owns. The taste is nearly perfect.

"We're involved?" Jon is smiling as he says that.

Chris stands up and gives a smile of his own, albeit of a small one. "I guess we are."

Jon's eyes light up. "Does this mean I can stay the night?"

Oh, no. Chris hurriedly strides from the office, aware of how close Jon keeps to his heels. 

"Chris, hey, Chris! C'mon now."

Chris savors a last taste of his brandy before setting it aside on an end table. Then he takes away Jon's drink and catches a hold of the back of the man's jacket.

"Ooh, this _is_ kinky. Where're we going?"

Unbeknownst to Archer, he's going home.

Chris opens the front door and swings Jon through it. Jon plants his heels to stop his progress down the front steps and looks out over the yard, blinking. "Wait, this isn't the bedroom." The man whirls around, demanding, "I am staying the night, right?"

"No, you're not."

"I am staying the night!"

"No, really," Chris insists, "you're not," and gives the man a final shove away from the door so he can close it. "Have a safe drive home, Jonathan!" he calls through the wood.

Archer is never one to be deterred. He knocks. Pike ignores it, crossing the living room. Inevitably, Jon takes to pounding on the door.

"Aw, Princess, let me back in!"

Chris flops down onto his couch with a groan and puts a pillow over his face.

When coaxing and wheedling don't work, Archer switches his approach. "Damn you, Pike, I've had a severe case of blue balls since the 1980s! Help a man out here!"

Chris presses the pillow against his face with both hands to stop his laughing.

"I swear I won't touch you..."

His shoulders convulse.

"...only watch you sleep a little!"

Chris jerks the pillow off his face and shouts, knowing his voice is laced with his amusement but unable to help it, "I'll need more flowers!"

Silence. Then, "How many?"

"Figure it out!"

He thinks that will buy him a little time—time he needs because he really must talk to his son first. Jim is no doubt already scheming to do something terrible to Jon, and as fiercely as Jon would argue Pike could at least give him a last hurrah before he was smothered in his sleep by an evil spirit named Kirk, Chris would rather have one obstacle out of the way before he truly invests in a long-term relationship.

That means a serious father-to-son talk has to happen, and soon.

~~~

Pike's cell phone rings the next morning and out of habit, he answers, "Jim, is this a call from jail?"

"No, sir," a voice answers, "and this isn't Jim."

Chris comes fully awake in an instant. "McCoy?" His heart slams against his ribs as he glances at his bedside clock. He's already halfway out of bed as he says, in the beginnings of a panic attack, "What's happened to my son?"

"Nothin'," McCoy assures him quickly. "Jim's fine. Kid's in the middle of snoring fit to be the band." The young man's voice lowers unexpectedly. "I snitched his phone so I could talk to you. I'm sorry, I thought you'd be up by now."

"Late night" is all the answer Chris gives, scrubbing a hand over his face. "What's on your mind?" The fact that Leonard is willing to call him makes him cautiously hopeful.

"I—I have a question, a hypothetical one."

Chris waits for the rest.

"If I wanted to... damn this is awkward," Chris hears the mutter, "...date your son, how would you feel about that?"

Chris really is wide awake now. "I would say I'm fine with it if Jim is fine with it."

"Okay." Leonard sounds relieved. "Another hypothetical question... If I was _already_ dating your son and we kinda didn't tell you, how would you feel about that?"

Chris allows for a long pause because he's not only surprised but wondering how in the world he could have missed the clues. Jim and Leonard were together?

"Mr. Pike?"

"No need to sound nervous, Mr. McCoy. I was simply taking a minute to think."

"Oh." A pause ensues. "Were you thinking about shooting me between the eyes and burying my body in your basement under a concrete slab?"

Chris's eyebrows shoot up. "...No."

" _Thank god_."

"Leonard, please tell me Jim did not convince you I would do that." Well, he had threatened violence in a nondescript way, but surely Jim knew that conversation was supposed to stay between them?

"Hell no. He was all gung-ho about making sure _everybody_ knew. I—" And here Leonard sounds a little sheepish. "—was the one who was worried. I made him promise not to tell you until I had the courage to do it myself. Please don't blame him."

"I hope you know that I like you, Leonard, and more importantly that I appreciate how good you are for my son." 

"Thank you, sir."

"But if," Chris adds in a too-pleasant tone, "you do anything that hurts my boy, I will not simply shoot you, Leonard—because I could never let you die that easily."

Leonard's response is long in coming and even then it is hesitant. "Um, all right?"

"Great. Glad we understand each other." He shifts to lean back against the pillows on his bed. "For curiosity's sake, can I ask what prompted you to finally come clean?"

"You make me sound like a criminal," McCoy replies dryly.

"If the shoe fits."

"Jesus, I'm never going to live this down, am I?"

"I won't bring it up at _all_ of the family dinners. So, what was it?"

"Your letter—which, by the way, last I heard identity theft was still a federal crime."

Chris never should have asked. His forefinger and thumb pinch the bridge of his nose. "Jim's read it then."

"Not yet. We get our laptops mixed up sometimes. I saw it by accident. Normally I wouldn't have tried reading it at all, but the reading pane on his inbox wasn't turned off and I saw my name at the bottom of the message. Then I figured I had a right to know, since you and I don't use the same email address, and I'm pretty damn sure I haven't emailed Jim in ages."

"Leonard, about that..."

"I'm sure it was done with good intention."

"Thank you for giving me the benefit of the doubt."

Leonard gives a short laugh. "Actually I just said that so you wouldn't feel bad. To be honest, I'm not certain what the hell you were thinking, Mr. Pike."

"I plead the fifth."

"Damn, shoulda known. Like father like son—or is it like son like father? I'm not even sure anymore which of you is the original."

Chris smiles to himself and says nothing.

"To make a long story short, your idea sucked but the execution...? That was something else entirely."

"What do you mean?"

Leonard asks slowly, "Did you even read what you wrote?"

"I didn't write it." Chris curses immediately after the words leave his mouth and bites down on his tongue, which does him no good.

Leonard is making a _hmm_ noise that Pike figures means he is adding two and two together to get four. "Well... I think I should have guessed. It's kinda obvious now. Boy, he's got it bad."

"I'm going to regret this conversation, aren't I?"

The younger man's laugh rings out through the phone. "You seriously don't regret half of what we've already talked about?"

"Now that you mention it..."

"Look, Mr. Pike, Jim's waking up—"

Sometimes Chris's brain is slow to connect the dots; today isn't one of those times. "You're in _bed_ with my son?"

"...No?"

Chris is trying very hard to prevent his thoughts from taking any particular, traumatizing turn by thinking of bunnies—fluffy bunnies and cute puppies. The effort fails. A neon sigh flashes in his mind: _your son has a sex life!_

"Don't say anything else," he begs the person on the other end of the line.

"Wasn't plannin' to, sir. I'm not stupid." Chris hears in the background a muffled " _Bones?_ "

"Leonard, hang up the phone."

"Roger that." The line goes dead.

Chris, not for the first time in 24 hours, puts a pillow over his head to block out the insanity that is his life.

~~~

Surprisingly, Leonard calls back in the afternoon. Before Chris can greet him, the first thing out of the young man's mouth is "I've goddamn had it with your son!"

Phone pressed to his ear, Chris stops digging around through a cabinet for some kind of container to use for the package of lilies taking up his kitchen counter space. This is the third delivery today. He's terribly afraid of what Archer has done. Thus, in order to get his mind off of the crazy person trying to get into his pants through 1-800-FLOWERS, he tries advising his son's boyfriend.

"Mr. Pike, I didn't understand a word you said. Are you in a tunnel?"

Nope, under the kitchen sink. "I said," Chris repeats, groaning as he gets off his knees and tries to straight his hunched back, "don't dump Jim yet. At least wait until after Valentine's."

"I'm not dumping the idiot. I don't think I could get rid of him if I wanted to."

Hm, maybe they have something in common. Chris may grow to like Leonard more than he already does. "I'm afraid I don't know what to say except I'm sorry and good luck."

Leonard's snort is loud and clear over the phone. "You're the one who needs the good luck, Mr. Pike. If I didn't feel so sorry for that poor infatuated mongoose of a sheriff, I would question how the hell you can stand him."

"He's Jon," Chris says simply. "I like him the way he is. Don't you feel similarly about my son?"

"Yeah... I kinda figured in the moment I caught Jim practicing the phrase 'Bones, I'm in love with you' in front of the bathroom mirror that if I could live with him this many years and still care about him the same at the end of each day, we had something worth pursuing."

"Good to know. So what's he doing this time to drive you crazy?"

McCoy says a lengthy Southern-accented curse; evidently the mere thought of the subject can warm up the man's temper. "It's Sheriff this, Sheriff that! I told him to get over it already! You're a grown man who can make his own decisions about his personal life!"

"How true. Please continue to remind him I was a grown up long before he was. Maybe one day he'll actually comprehend those words."

But Leonard is not sharing Pike's amusement. "I swear I don't have time for his pig-headedness, Mr. Pike. So this is actually a courtesy call. I'm gonna make Jim read the letter. Then I'm gonna tell him that the sheriff wrote it, and make him read it again. "

Though Pike knew this had to happen eventually, the thought still makes him nervous. But he realizes in the end all he can reply with is the truth: "I want Jim to be okay with any relationship I have, Leonard. Maybe that seems backwards since I'm the parent and he's the child, but Jim means more to me than anyone else in this world. He is the one person I couldn't survive losing."

"I know that," Leonard replies in a gentle tone, "'n I promise I'm going to do my best with him."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome." Then McCoy releases a long breath, chuckling at the end of it. (Chris interprets this as a sign that the young man has shaken off most of his doubts.) "Well, I should probably clarify that the love letter is Plan A."

Pike is willing to play along. "What's Plan B?

"We give each of them a pistol and set them twenty paces apart at the crack of dawn."

"That... would certainly conclude things one way or another."

"Yes, it would!" Leonard's words are muffled for a moment as he speaks to someone else. Then his voice returns, saying, "All right, Mr. Pike, thanks for listening to me rant. I'm actually on break at work so..."

"Anytime, Leonard. Take care. I'll see you next weekend." Jim had planned to come home then, and Chris suspects once the boy realizes the 'secretive dating' is no longer a secret, he will drag his best friend and newly minted boyfriend along for the trip.

Leonard seems to know that too. "Yeah, I think you will. Bye, Mr. Pike."

"Goodbye." Chris hangs up, satisfied that Jim has found someone with enough insight to predict his moves and also with enough caring and tolerance for Jim's silliness to let Jim do as he wishes when no harm will come of it. Pike had considered that his duty since the day he officially adopted Jim (and perhaps even before that, in the moment he first encountered the golden-haired child with the fire in his eyes); now he feels he can turn the job over to Leonard and have no regrets.

That pleasant train of thought is dispelled when the door bell rings twice in rapid succession. Chris marches to the front door of his house, opens it without bothering to use the peephole, and tells the latest flower delivery boy to take his bouquet home as a personal gift. 

"But, sir," the teenager protests, holding up a pad of paper, "I'm not supposed to do that."

"Here," Pike says, exasperated, as he scribbles his name across the pad, "I signed the slip, and I don't want the flowers. They're yours. Give them to your girlfriend or your mother. Anybody but _me_ , understand?"

"But..." The delivery boy turns to look over his shoulder with trepidation.

Across the street, the tinted window of a truck cab rolls down. Sheriff Archer gives them both a cheerful little wave.

Damn it!

With a fearful noise, the boy thrusts the bouquet—white roses this time—into Pike's arms and scurries away along the sidewalk as fast as he can. Chris grimly considers the roses in his arms then eyeballs the truck which he had failed to notice had been parked across from his house all day.

And, just like that, his resolve breaks. (It must have been flimsy anyway, he will figure later.) He points at Archer, making certain to hold the man's eyes despite the distance between them, then crooks his finger in invitation.

With a whoop, Jonathan leaps out of his truck. Maybe Christopher should be embarrassed to watch a full-grown man cry 'Hallelujah!' and jog across the street waving to passers-by and nosy neighbors like he just won an Olympic Gold medal and they are his adoring fans. Maybe Chris should care but he finds he doesn't, not when Jon looks that happy and decades younger because of it. Pike feels happy and young himself as he steps aside to let Archer in his house.

"You won't regret this, Chris," Archer is telling him, eyes shining.

Chris smiles and tosses the roses towards the couch in order to free up his hands. "No," he agrees smoothly, reaching for Jon, "I don't think I will."

 

**The End**


End file.
